


Self Defence

by Twyd



Category: Child's Play/Chucky (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Past, Denial, Disturbing Themes, Drinking, Dubious Consent, Enemies, Fucked Up, Hostage Situations, Light Bondage, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Movie: Cult of Chucky (2017), Possession, Revenge, Sex, Slash, Some Humor, Suicidal Thoughts, Teasing, Trauma, Twisted, Violence, Voodoo, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25804981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twyd/pseuds/Twyd
Summary: Update coming as soon as I can manage. Life is bad rn.Set somewhere during the Cult of Chucky events. Chucky comes for Andy in his cabin.  Andy is an adult in this, obvs.
Relationships: Andy Barclay/Chucky | Charles Lee Ray
Comments: 60
Kudos: 101





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Going to hell for this one.

He’d been drinking when the knock comes. A Friday night when he couldn’t face even trying to date, when he’d only fucked with the doll’s head for a while before crashing in front of the TV. It was his last few days in the cabin before he’d have to go home, back to the store, back to some kind of life, whether he managed to save Nica or not. Probably not. Although he did have a vague sort of plan in mind, he just needed the balls to go through with it. And even then, he didn’t have a great track record of saving people from Chucky.

And now, alone, thinking this, and an innocent enough knock comes, startling him. He knew Amazon could deliver this late, but he didn’t think they’d chance it with the storm. That, and getting deliveries made Andy nervous, for obvious reasons, even when he’d been expecting the delivery in question and knew exactly what it was.

He peeps out the window before opening the door, and is reassured by the plain, bored looking man with a box containing Andy’s extra heater, clad in a parka and beanie hat himself, probably thinking nothing but to get his deliveries done with and get out of the cold. Andy opens the door.

“Andy Barclay?”

The delivery man’s voice is muffled by the scarf wrapped halfway around his face, but he tilts the box to show Andy his own name.

“That’s me. Thanks.”

“You want a hand? S’heavy.”

It _was_ heavy, heavier than he’d expected, but he hoped that meant it would be decent. Sitting by the fire was fine, but the bedroom got damn cold on the worst nights, and this storm would be one of them. Carrying the box between them, they walk it into the front room. 

“Thanks,” Andy says, as he settles his end down, about to feel for his wallet to leave a tip. “Appreciate it –“

Pain thuds against the side of his skull, and he falls to the floor.

-

He wakes slowly, like he’d been drugged. Pain thumps in the side of his head and the back of his eyelids, while other parts of him hurt from where he’d hit the wooden floor. It is a familiar pain, the same from when he’d been knocked out when he was six, and again at eight. No panic yet, only confusion, trying to remember if he'd had too much to drink.

What isn't familiar is the way he's leaning forward, head weighing down, supported by a burning pressure knotting his wrists. They don’t come forward when he commands them too, and it takes him a moment to realise why. He drags his head up.

The delivery man is sitting in an identical chair to his own, twisted so that he is straddling it, his arms resting on the back and his head on his arms. He is watching Andy, looking amused. His smirk is somehow familiar.

“Thought you’d be a little more careful about letting strangers in.”

The voice sends Andy’s blood cold.

“You…”

“Yeah.” Chucky giggles hysterically, and Andy almost throws up at the sound. “And check this out.” Chucky reaches up and removes the beanie, shaking out thick red hair, and starts giggling all over again. “You believe this guy? I saw him and I just thought, I can’t _not_.”

Andy is staring at him. Part of him still hasn’t quite grasped the situation. Chucky is here. Chucky is human. Chucky has Andy tied to a chair, in a cabin in the middle of nowhere during a blizzard.

Chucky’s laughter peters out and he narrows his eyes, also unnervingly blue, like the doll’s.

“You’re not reacting quite like I expected.”

It takes Andy a moment to realise he’s supposed to respond. He swallows, and tries to think through the throbbing pain in his skull. “Well, y’know, these days nothing surprises me any more.”

“Heh. Fair enough. Maybe this’ll help.”

He gets up, and goes to the other side of the room. Andy can’t see what he’s doing, but he’s familiar with the scrape of the particular drawer Chucky’s opening, the tools he’s pulling out of it.

“Let’s see.”

Chucky strolls back and starts laying items out one by one on the table, where Andy could clearly see them – the blowtorch, the knives, everything Andy had used on Chucky since locking up his head. Andy watches this procession in silence, feeling Chucky’s eyes on him. He wants to scream, but part of him is numb. Hadn’t he always known, on some level, that this would happen? Andy had never expected to get away with the torture he’d inflicted on the doll. But he’d wanted to do it anyway. He’d wanted to achieve some kind of ‘fuck you’ to the doll, before the killer finished him off once and for all.

“Pissin’ your pants yet?”

Andy looks up. Chucky is watching him. Again, Andy swallows. He does not know what he could say that could make this better or worse. Begging would probably encourage him. Silence would probably enrage him. Provoking him would probably make him prolong the torture.

 _At least,_ Andy thinks in the back of his hurting mind, _I wasn’t stupid enough to have kids, to fall in love, to bring anyone else into this that I haven’t already. At least it’s only me he’s doing this to._

“Oh, I got a better idea,” Chucky says now, making him jump. A smile grows over his face, his repulsive face that so resembles the doll that Andy could see how Chucky got a sick kick out of it. “Let’s call your Mom.”

Andy stiffens. “No.”

“Yeah.” He takes Andy’s phone from his own pocket, where he’d apparently stolen it when he knocked Andy out. He swipes the passcode and chuckles, shaking his head. “Having your birth date as your passcode ain’t very secure, Barclay.”

“Please don’t.”

His voice sounds tiny, impassive, even to his own ears. Surely this was one of the nightmares. He’d dreamed up things far more fucked up than Chucky had ever actually done to him in real life.

“Let’s see…why don’t I send a text and tell her to come over? I’ll say you got a big surprise for her.” Chucky titters as he starts typing.

“Chucky, please.” Andy yanks at his ropes again, uselessly. His feet aren’t bound, but the chair was one of those heavy, handmade ones that could have been carved by a lumberjack. Even if he managed to stand, he’d probably fall on his face.

Outside, the snows was whirling against the window. His Mom probably wouldn’t come out this far anyway, but if she sensed something wrong, she would. And she _would_ sense something was wrong. She would come. She’d take a plane and hire one of the snow-ready vehicles to get to him. She’d try to be careful, but it wouldn’t be enough. _He_ , Andy, had been careful since he was six years old, and look at him now.

“ _Please_ ,” he hears himself saying. “Do anything but that. Anyone but her. Please. I’m begging you.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be doing plenty more things to plenty more people, but I think –“

Andy’s phone rings in Chucky’s hand, making them both jump. It is unnaturally loud in the cabin. They stare at each other.

Casually, as if reaching for a cigarette, Chucky pulls out a pistol out of his pocket, aiming it at Andy lazily. With his other hand, he accepts the call.

“Hello?”

He listens for a moment.

“Yes, this is Andy Barclay speaking.”

His eyes drift away from Andy as he listens, features neutral, while Andy tries to decipher the inaudible voice coming from the end of the phone.

“Oh, that’s _terrible._ ” Chucky meets Andy’s eyes as he speaks. “I just can’t believe it. How _awful.”_

Andy stares at him, both understanding and not understanding.

“I don’t know what to say, I’m just so _sad_ ,” Chucky continues in a horribly exaggerated tone, holding Andy’s eye. “And I’m actually stuck in a blizzard at the moment…yeah, might be here for a few days, at least. But I’ll come as soon as I can.”

Andy has closed his eyes by the time Chucky hangs up.

“Well,” Chucky says, and Andy can hear a little thunk as his phone is tossed aside. “That option’s out.”

“You asshole,” Andy says quietly.

“What’s that, bitch?”

Andy hears something being snatched up from the table as Chucky speaks, and he doesn’t particularly care what it is.

“Fuck you, Chucky,” he says, and opens his eyes. The former doll has the biggest blade in hand. “The option I was most afraid of is no longer available. So do what you want. I don’t care.”

“Andy,” he says in a low voice. “You have no idea just how fucking afraid you’re about to be. You remember shooting my arms off? And how my legs got cut off? The fire? And the acid? Everything else? I’m about to skin you alive.”

“Fine,” Andy snaps back. “Just do it already.”

Chucky moves before Andy can even finish, the knife shooting out, that slices across his thigh. He yelps with surprise as much as pain. It cuts clean through his jeans, and a patch of warmth spreads as he bleeds. It’s a cat scratch, though, compared to what Chucky could really do.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to tell me what to do,” the former doll growls. “Do you?”

Wisely, Andy does not respond. The slash only stings a little, but it brings with it the fact that this is really happening. This is not a dream. 

“I don’t get it,” Andy says weakly. He is a little dizzy, and tries to avoid looking at his own blood. “You’re in the safe. You _were_ in the safe.”

“I told you, I’m not the only one.”

“But how…?”

“I’m not about to give you voodoo lessons, kid.” Chucky gets to his feet. “You sure have given me some lessons in torture, though, I’ll give you that. Never something I went in for, personally. You’re a sadistic little fuck, you know that? You even had it in you when you were eight years old.”

“In self-defence,” he whispers.

Chucky laughs at this. “Yah, sure, in that case, what I’m about to do is in ‘self-defence.’”

He fists Andy’s hair, yanking back to expose his throat. Andy cringes, feeling the knife against his skin, and waits.

A beat passes, the knife still against his throat. He feels it shake slightly against his skin. Chucky seemed to be waiting too, though Andy can’t bring himself to open his eyes to find out why. He waits. After an age, the grip on his hair loosens. 

“You know,” Chucky says now, almost casual. “I never could get into torture.”

To Andy’s amazement, the knife withdraws. He hears Chucky go back to his chair. He opens his eyes, confused. The former doll’s own eyes are narrowed with amusement.

 _He’s fucking with me_ , Andy realises. _He could do this all night._

“Not like you, and not like some other fuckers out there,” Chucky continues idly. He turns the chair the right way round and sits. “I thought _I_ was bad, but since I been dead I seen some shit on the news that makes me look like a fuckin’ cartoon.”

Andy says nothing. He tries desperately to think of something.

“Are you going to leave Nica alone now? I mean, you’ve got a body…”

“Don’t try to distract me, you little shit,” Chucky says at once. “And no, for the record, I’m not. I left _you_ alone for 20 odd years, yet you still come back to fuck with me.”

“You were the one who came back. I didn’t exactly order you in the mail.”

“But you keep stickin’ your nose in,” he snaps. “Like with Tyler. Like with Nica. I’ll never be fucking rid of you.”

Andy says nothing. He suspects now may not be the time to point out that he felt exactly the same way. Chucky gets up then, and disappears into the kitchen. Perhaps he was looking for a knife more to his liking. He comes back however with an iced whiskey in hand, the bottle in the other, one Andy had been drinking from earlier.

“You got a lot of booze for someone who lives alone,” Chucky comments, reclining his seat again. He puts his feet up on Andy’s knees, and Andy doesn’t dare try to kick him off. “And it’s not like you have people over.”

“I have people over,” Andy growls. “I don’t tell you every fucking thing I do.”

“Probably more than you tell anyone else though, huh? Like about all the redheads you date.”

Chucky shrieks with laughter at this, while Andy closes his eyes. He had dated _two_ redheads (for their personality, he didn’t give a fuck about their hair) and Chucky had seen them on his laptop when Andy had left the head on the table in the background. He had been getting careless. But Chucky had been just a _head_. Andy had thought he was powerless.

“Naw, you don’t have people over, Andy,” Chucky says now, salting the wounds. “I could keep you out here for weeks and no-one would come for you.”

He was right. Andy had shut up his store for a month to come out here and try and help Nica. He hadn’t told anyone (even his Mom, Mike, Kristen) because they’d try to stop him, they always had when he’d showed them the latest on Chucky in the news. But he couldn’t just stand back. He remembers being a kid and how alone he’d felt, how helpless. He couldn’t abandon Nica.

He feels a little kick against his knees.

“Still awake over there?”

“They’ll come looking for the delivery man," Andy hears himself saying. "For you.”

It is the only rational thing he can think of. He is almost pleased with himself, when Chucky says,

“They’ll have a hard time of it in this weather. And I ditched the van about a mile from here.” He shrugs. “Another body connected to you. Guess you’ll be in the papers again pretty soon.”

“What do you want, you fucking asshole?” Andy wants to sound menacing, but it comes out tired, weak. Chucky tilts his head patronisingly, eyes narrowing, but Andy continues anyway. “Are you just gonna sit there and chitchat all night?”

The knife is at his throat again before he can blink.

“An-dy,” Chucky chides. “It’s almost as if you wanna die.”

Andy says nothing. His head still throbs. His shoulders ache from how tightly his hands are pulled taut behind his back, and now pain flashes through his chest as well. He can feel the blood leave the gash in his thigh with every beat of his heart. The weight of Chucky's feet on his lap didn't help. He's nauseous down to his gut. His vision swims, head getting heavy.

When it clears, Chucky is tying what looked like one of his shirts around his thigh.

“What are you doing?” he asks weakly.

“You think I’m gonna let you pass out?” Chucky finishes the knot. “Fuckin’ pussy.” His hand drifts down, adjusting Andy's leg, and he laughs as he runs his fingers along the scar on the back on Andy's ankle, from the knife slash at military school. 

“Kyle knows about you,” Andy says out loud, still coming to.

“Who?”

“Kyle. From the foster home. From the Good Guy factory. She knows I’m out here. She knows about you.”

“Oh, that bitch,” Chucky says nonchalantly, returning to his seat. He leans down to get Andy’s phone off the floor. “Guess I better take care of her too, then. Unless she’s already taken care of herself like your Mom.”

Andy winces at the jibe.

“What happened to my Mom?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Did you have something to do with it?”

“You’ve got two Kyles in your phonebook,” Chucky says, ignoring the question. “Let me read your texts and try and guess which one it is. Hmm, nothing about me here…nothing about me here, either. Unless you guys got a code.”

Andy tunes him out. If Kyle came, she would be careful. She’d be prepared. She might not even come at all, might sense a trap if she received a text from him but then didn’t answer any calls. Andy tries to put the thought of help out of his mind. He shouldn’t be wishing for Kyle to come. Or anyone to come. Even if by some miracle he escaped now, Chucky would come back for him later down the line, and more people would be dead for nothing. 

Chucky is still messing with Andy's phone, and now starts to cackle.

“Hey, you really do have a lot of redheads on your Facebook.”

“Shut up,” he growls.

“Seriously,” he giggles. “Something you wanna tell me, Andy? You’re even more fucked up than I thought.”

Andy forces himself not to defend himself. He couldn’t even remember who he had on his Facebook. Rachel was the only redhead he could think of. Maybe he was subconsciously trying to stop associating the slightest thing with Chucky – red hair, cartoons, guns – by forcing himself closer to them.

He doesn’t share this theory with Chucky, who is now at the end of his whiskey and pouring himself another. Andy wonders what will happen if the former doll got drunk, if that will make him less dangerous or even more so. He sits there now with his whiskey, Andy’s whiskey, contemplating Andy for several seconds without speaking. Andy’s aware that he’s doing this to mess with him, that he should ignore him, but he can’t help it.

“What?” Andy says.

“You didn’t answer me.”

“About what?”

“About the fucking redheads.”

“Oh my god,” Andy growls. “They’re just girls I know. Nice girls, good looking girls. Not every little thing is about you.”

“No?” Chucky sneers. “The gun store not about me? You think you woulda set that up if you had a normal childhood? You don’t think you woulda, like, had a family or something instead?”

“Shut up.”

Chucky laughs, softer now.

“Y’know Andy, I’m not gonna kill you. After all the shit that’s gone down, I almost have some respect for you. You were a tough kid.”

Andy trembles and refuses to look at him. This is almost worse than torture would have been. This mockery of friendship, this sense of false security. He mustn’t react to it.

“And by the way,” Chucky titters. “Your Mom’s not dead. I was just fuckin’ with ya.”

Andy opens his eyes. “…what?”

“Yah, she had some bump in the car and got minor whiplash. They’re keeping her in overnight just in case. That’s it.”

Andy’s heart goes wild, jumping with hope even while he forces himself to think otherwise.

“I don’t believe you,” he says.

Rolling his eyes, Chucky scoops up the phone and the gun once again, pointing one at Andy lazily while dialling the other. On speaker phone, looking into Andy’s eyes, he says to the person on the switchboard:

“This is Andy Barclay, I got a call about an hour ago about my mother Karen Barclay, who’s been in a car accident. How’s she doin’? Can I come visit?”

There is a tense moment while she checks the records.

“Yes, Mrs Barclay is stable with no serious injuries. We actually think she’ll be out by tomorrow morning, so I don’t think you’ll need to visit, as she's sleeping right now. I believe her partner’s going to take her home. Shall I let her know you called when she wakes up?”

Andy stares at Chucky.

“...Mr Barclay?” the woman prompts on the end of the phone, and Chucky hangs up.

“So the option you’re most afraid of is most definitely still on the table,” he says.

Andy takes no notice. His Mom is alive _now_ , that was all that mattered. The relief of it makes his head swim.

She had Mike. They were both smart, cautious, and they were both far away from here. Oddly, he almost felt like thanking Chucky. He must have lost more blood than he thought.

It was the mental strain, the constant up and down. Maybe this was Chucky’s plan, to terrify him, offer some relief, then terrify him again until Andy had a nervous breakdown. But that wasn’t Chucky’s style. He liked blood, he liked screams, and he wasn’t very patient. He normally wasn’t this patient, anyway.

“So what do you want?” Andy asks once more. Maybe Chucky himself didn’t even know. Before, when he had first put the knife to Andy’s throat, he seemed genuinely willing to go through with it. And then, he didn’t. In the past, he had been at his most blood-thirsty whenever he was in a rage, which now he clearly wasn’t. He was sitting back with a whiskey, laughing at Andy, savouring his triumph.

“I’m almost tempted to untie you and have a fair fight,” Chucky muses now. “Same size, no incapacities, no interruptions. I’d be interested to see what happened.”

“Since when do you play fair,” Andy mumbles in response.

“So you wanna stay tied up?”

“Nothing I say will make any difference to what you do anyway. I’m not stupid.”

“Suit yourself.”

Replacing the whiskey on the table, he stands nonchalantly and strolls over to Andy’s chair again, without weapons this time, not that that is much comfort. Andy stiffens and waits.

It takes him a moment to process what’s happening. A mouth against his, a hand at the back of his neck, the other on his knee. A tongue against his own, while his mouth is slack with surprise.

“…what are you doing?”

“Fucking with you,” he whispers back, kissing him again.

He is gripped in place by Chucky’s hand. The other hand on his knee massages him casually, just below the slash in his thigh, and bizarrely, with the adrenaline, Andy feels a stir of excitement under the horror. The closeness of another, a _man_ , something new, the blood coursing through his veins, the fact that Chucky was kissing him well, almost like it wasn’t an act of violence. He thinks about kicking, but he wouldn’t be able to do much damage at their current angle, and he’d risk only pissing the other man off. He tenses instead, preparing for a headbutt, when Chucky growls a warning.

“I’d think very carefully about that, Barclay.”

He weakens, bowing to cowardice, and allows the kiss to continue. The former doll catches his tongue between his teeth and holds it. He doesn’t clamp down, but Andy is still unable to pull it free. He waits for several seconds, convinced Chucky is about to tear it off, but after a moment he releases it and returns to kissing him, caressing the tongue he’d had in his teeth.

“Untie me,” Andy blurts.

“Nah, you had your chance.”

He is practically sitting on Andy now, the weight of him pressing into the pain that was Andy’s thigh. And that is not all he is pressing into.

“I knew it,” Chucky says, laughing with delight.

“Fuck you,” Andy says furiously.

“Yeah, I know,” Chucky says, laughing harder. “It’s been years since I fucked another human. I think it has for you too.”

“Get off me, you sick freak.”

“Relax, Andy. I'm no rapist.” He bites Andy’s lip in warning as the other continues to struggle. “I’ll make sure you like it.”

“Please. Don’t do this.”

“You’re hard as a rock, bitch.” His rakes Andy’s head back again, and nips at his throat. “So shut up.”

“I was six when you met me,” he stutters. As if this will help.

Chucky growls at this. “Andy. You mention being a kid again and I’ll throw up in your mouth. Don’t you dare imply shit.”

This is apparently the only thing that will get Chucky off him. But Andy’s afraid that if he goes down that route it will make the former doll mad, which will make him lose his humour and maybe make him murderous, or at least more likely to do some dismembering.

Perhaps it was too late anyway – he hears the familiar, dull slide of metal of a knife somewhere at his side, and braces himself for it. Next thing he knows his shoulder slump forward, freed of what had tied them. Pain shoots down both arms, cramping down to his fingers. He’s free, but he can’t move.

“I can’t feel my hands.”

“They say that’s a good time to jerk off,” Chucky snickers. “Pretend it’s someone else doing it.”

Chucky kisses him again, and Andy lets him. Whenever he tries to move his arms they are too heavy, uncontrollable, not part of him, his fingers stiffened into useless claws.

Chucky is unconcerned about his freedom anyway, one hand inside Andy’s shirt now, ghosting lazily over his skin as if he can hardly be bothered with what he’s doing. Andy on the other hand is aching hard, and hating himself. Tears come to his eyes for the first time, as he realises this was probably Chucky’s plan all along, this ultimate way of hurting him.

“I hate you,” Andy whispers.

“Uh huh.”

His hands and arms starts to get some feeling back. He’s barely moved them when Chucky’s hands clamp around his wrists, holding him. He bites Andy’s shoulder hard, too hard to be anything even close to a hickey. Andy grits his teeth through it but doesn’t make a noise. Chucky lets out an approving ‘heh’ when he’s finished.

“You’re such a little masochist.”

“No I’m not.”

Chucky shifts back slightly on the other’s lap, causing Andy to wince as it jars his thigh, and rubs Andy through his jeans with his hand. This hand that wasn’t his, this stranger inhabited by a fucking serial killer. Andy's cock jumps.

“Oh God,” he whimpers.

“Still want me to stop, And' ?”

“You’re hurting my thigh.”

“Such a fucking wimp.” He stands unexpectedly, and drags Andy up after him. “You got a bed?” He drags Andy out of the room without waiting for his response. Throws him on to his bed with more force than necessary, and climbs on top of him while Andy is still stunned.

The contact triggers something in Andy’s brain, some instinct that wasn’t in touch with the real him, that has him holding on to Chucky instead of pushing him away, the friction delicious. He keeps his eyes closed as Chucky starts yanking his clothes off, and the former doll doesn’t call him on it. The make-shift bandage around his thigh comes off with his jeans, getting blood on them both, but Chucky doesn’t seem to care.

Andy sighs when their skin touches, feeling some of the fight go out of him once and for all. They are half wrestling, Chucky pinning his hands with one while he rifles in Andy’s drawer with the other, but Andy isn’t really trying anymore.

“Don’t,” he says again, unconvincing even to himself.

“C’mon, we’re halfway there already.”

A familiar smell hits him as Chucky uncaps what Andy usually used to masturbate with.

“Tell me to stop if you don’t want it,” Chucky says, his fingers between Andy’s legs.

“I just did.”

“Say it now. Say ‘stop’ if you want me to stop.”

He doesn’t. He keeps his eyes closed and his lips clamped together, face averted. Chucky laughs at him, and slides one finger inside. Andy grimaces, trying to get used to the sensation.

“Well,” Chucky says, flexing his finger. “You know what to say if you do.”

Andy almost does when Chucky adds another finger, but he bites it back, tears of strain dripping down his temple on to the pillow. Chucky moves his fingers then, and it sends something shuddering through Andy’s whole body.

Chucky’s laugh comes an octave lower. “Yeah, there you go.”

“Don’t,” Andy says again, more weakly than before, as heat pools in his stomach. He wants more than anything to touch himself, but his still tingling hands are pinned by Chucky's free arm. “Chucky,” he says, as the other moves his fingers again.

“Mmm.”

“Please –“

“Please what, asshole? Tell me what you want.”

“I can’t.”

“You fuckin’ better, or I’m just gonna do whatever the hell I want, and you may not like it.”

“Touch me,” he says, hating himself, screwing his eyes up.

The former doll huffs as if disappointed. “That all?” He obliges though, releasing Andy’s wrists so he can wrap his other hand around the other’s cock. It jumps in his hand, and Andy has to fight every instinct to arch into the touch.

“Heh. I can't believe you're so needy. I was just gonna freak you out, but you’re _really_ into this.”

“You ever shut up?”

“I’ll shut up when I’m dead.”

He kisses Andy again, mocking, laughing into his mouth. Andy wishes Chucky would flip him over, so he could hide his face, but he senses that Chucky will not, that he will want to watch every moment of pleasure and self-hatred on Andy’s face.

Chucky abandons his cock, pushing his legs up so he could finger him again, and Andy claws at his back, holding him closer. Chucky adds another finger.

“Fuck,” Andy whispers.

“Mm-hmm.”

“I hate you.”

“Yeah you do.”

“I’ll kill you for this.”

“Mmm.” He moves his fingers in such a way that Andy feels it down in his core, clinging to the other now with his legs, toes curling.

“Oh god, please.”

“Now what do you want, asshole?” Chucky’s voice is shaking now as well, finally effected by what they're doing. Andy can feel the other’s cock against his bleeding thigh, though he’s too far gone to complain about it.

When Andy doesn't respond, Chucky withdraws his fingers without warning, and Andy almost groans at the loss.

“You want this or not Andy?” he growls now, all humour gone. “Yes or no?”

“Stop trying to humiliate me,” Andy snaps back. “You’ve done enough, you fucking bastard. You can’t make me feel any worse than I do now.”

“Yes or no, you little shit.”

He’s aligned now, cock in hand, Andy can feel him trembling, and thinks he will lose it and force his way in anyway, but he doesn’t. He does nothing. He waits for Andy to fall apart beneath him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Andy hisses again.

“Yes or no?”

“ _Yes,_ Goddamnit, yes –“

He’s barely finished the first syllable when Chucky pushes up inside him, sighing as he bottoms out.

“Relax,” he tells Andy, who’s cringing with pain. It hurts more than Chucky’s fingers had. He almost blurts for him to stop now (as if Chucky would), the pain of it burns that badly.

“Relax,” Chucky says again.

“Will you shut the fuck up?”

“Andy,” he says, and it’s almost affectionate, though there’s still some strain in his voice. He hasn’t moved yet.

Andy relaxes, and the pain lessens just a touch.

Chucky sighs somewhere above him.

“I’m going to destroy you," he murmurs.

Andy tunes the threat out and those that follow, unsure if Chucky’s talking to him or himself, if he’s talking about killing Andy or fucking him, whether he means something else altogether. His cock is painfully hard between them. 

“Andy,” Chucky says again, more in warning this time, about to move, and Andy gives in, yanks him down by the hair and kisses him.

-

The storm has died by morning. If it’s morning. Out here the snow had that strange light that made it hard to tell what time of day it was. Andy is still in bed. Chucky is half on top of him, a leg curled over his, an arm over his waist, more a result of possessiveness and laziness than any form of affection. He is still asleep. Andy’s thigh had finally stopped bleeding, though plenty of blood had got on them and on the bed. It still stung vaguely. Andy didn’t want to know what the consequences were of that kind of fluid getting into an open wound. He didn’t know anything about the body Chucky was currently possessing. It could have AIDS. It could have anything.

He stares at the snow falling out the window. A lamp is still on in the corner of the room, insignificant in the power of the sun.

He’ll have to kill himself, after this. There was no way round it. He thinks this calmly. As of late, he had had an almost zen-like attitude towards his own death. Making it to his thirties alone was something of a milestone he should be celebrating.

Even if he killed himself, Chucky could still tell his Mother, just to goad her. And Mike, and Kyle, or anyone else he felt was significant. Then again, he might not. Andy had no idea how to predict Chucky, whether he would be somewhat ashamed of this himself, or whether he’d delight in what he'd done.

But regardless of who Chucky did or didn’t tell, Andy couldn’t live with himself. No matter how terrified he’d been, no matter how it could have been down to blood loss and terror and near-force, he couldn’t live with it. He’d make it look like an accident so his Mom wouldn’t feel too bad. He’d –

The thought breaks off clean as if he’d been slapped, as Chucky starts to stir behind him.

“Hello, asshole,” he mutters, pulling his legs away from Andy’s. He chuckles as he sits up. “I still can’t believe that happened.”

Andy says nothing. He keeps his head down while he feels Chucky studying him, the blankets pooled around them.

“Wash your leg,” Chucky tells him.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Fine, get it amputated for all I care.”

Chucky gets out of bed and leaves the room. A moment later Andy hears him showering.

Pushing bloodied and stained blankets aside, Andy forces himself to look at his thigh. It wasn’t as bad as he feared, but Chucky’s throwaway comments still scares him. He eases himself to his feet, wincing as the pain twinges through his leg. Wrapping the sheets around himself, he limps into the kitchen for the first aid kit, and getting a clean cloth to wash up his thigh. It would need stitches, but he would do what he could for now.

He is still mopping when Chucky comes in, dressed, rubbing a towel through his hair.

“Andy, I need to borrow your laptop.”

“Fucking wait, would you?”

Part of him is glad, though, that Chucky was acting casual. Part of him had worried Chucky might want him dead more than ever, that he might be as uncomfortable with all this as Andy was.

He gets his laptop from the other room and sits at it with the table, still wrapped in the sheet, murmuring, “Give me a second.”

Chucky sniggers.

“That’s right, you delete all your doll porn.”

“Fuck off,” Andy says mechanically, as he deletes his browser history to ensure he’s logged out of all email, social media and bank accounts. He hands the laptop to Chucky and goes to shower himself.

The shower revives him mentally, quieting his brain as the hot water caresses his skin.

He wipes the mirror clean of steam when he’s finished, and looks the same as ever. A little tired. He goes to his room to put on clean clothes and change the sheets, which he tries not to look at. He’ll have to burn them.

Chucky is still on the laptop when he returns, apparently having become familiar with Google at some point, taking no notice of Andy whatsoever. He is such a ridiculous standard of asshole it’s almost funny.

Andy makes coffee and, as an afterthought, brings one over to Chucky.

“Thanks,” Chucky says, sounding surprised. “Poisoned?”

“Yeah.”

“Thought it might be.” He takes a sip anyway.

Andy takes his own cup over by the window, away from Chucky and away from what could have almost been banter. He’d always loved snow as a kid, a little kid, the _Before Chucky_ period which was feeling less and less like actual memories than something he’d once imagined. Snow made him think of his birthday, and Christmas, and snowball fights, and other good things. This place was a good enough place to die as any.

“Who’re you going after now?” Andy calls in a monotone.

“Huh?” Chucky says, vaguely distracted. “Oh no, this is something else I have to take care of.”

Andy hardly thinks he’ll doing something mundane, like opening a bank account, but he doesn’t push it. There was no point. He’s failed. He’s failed Nica, failed himself, failed the dead man who’s body Chucky’s possessing and whoever’s about to come next, as he couldn’t go long as a human getting away with murder.

“Andy,” he calls now. Andy hears the click of the laptop being snapped shut, but doesn’t look round as he hears the other approach. Chucky ruffles his hair. “Don’t feel so bad. It’s only sex.”

Andy bats his hand away. “Will you go now?”

“Yeah. I’ll take your truck.”

“Fucking great.”

“I’ll let you keep the head though.” He’s grinning when Andy whips round to face him, horrified, somehow forgetting the head’s existence, that he had no way of getting rid of it or destroying it without confronting it, without taking it out the safe in the wall for it to laugh at him. “You know. In case you miss me.”

“Fuck you!”

He hurls the remainder of his coffee at Chucky, but it is a hasty, uncoordinated move that Chucky easily sidesteps, and the coffee coats most of the floor instead. As Chucky laughs, Andy sees that the torture tools from last night are still out of the table. Chucky follows his gaze, looking amused.

“Yeah, the head can keep you company til I come back. I don’t mind.”

“You’re not coming back.”

“C’mon, you should know better. I am most definitely coming back.” He leans against Andy and tries to tickle the back of his neck, who bats him off again. “So don’t get too depressed. There’s just something I have to take care of first.”

“Stay away from my mother.”

“Andy, that was a joke to mess with you, I don’t give a shit about your fucking mother.”

Exasperated, he steps back and goes to pull on the parka, the dead man’s parka, and also pulls the beanie down over his absurd red hair, finding Andy’s car keys on the hook.

“I’ll see you real soon.”

Andy looks away. He listens to the door shut behind him, and a moment later hears the truck start. He stares out at the snow, and doesn’t move for a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

Andy doesn’t know how long he sits there, watching the snow. The cabin is silent, like it always is when the head was locked in the safe. But he doesn’t want to think about the head now. He can already imagine the shrill laughter that will pour out.

 _You let me fuck you?! And people call_ me _messed up?!_

Maybe he should just keep it in there forever.

Outside, a deer steps out in the flurry, silent as a ghost. Andy never shot at them. The trophies on the wall had come with the cabin, and he didn’t have permission to take them down, nor any interest in adding to the collection. No, there was only one head he was interested in.

The deer meets his eye. After a moment it flicks its ears, turns away and is gone.

He thinks about how he’ll have to report his car stolen, call Kyle and his insurance to bring him some other car in the meantime. And go to the doctor to get the gash on his thigh checked out. And call his Mom.

 _But I don’t need to do any of these things if I’m going to kill myself,_ he thinks.

He hears Chucky’s voice mocking him in his head. _Pussy._

To distract himself, he retrieves his phone from where Chucky had abandoned it by his laptop. Plugs it in to charge. To his relief, when he checks his texts, he finds Chucky had sent nothing to Kyle after all. Or anyone else.

He calls the police to report his car as stolen. Calls his insurance. Calls the local doctor’s surgery and confirms he’s willing to pay the absurdly expensive call-out fee. Calls his Mom, who’s heading home from hospital in a few hours, confirms she’s fine, tells her he’s having some car troubles, but he’ll be there as soon as he can. He keeps the conversation short, citing his signal, and keeps his voice normal. He doesn’t call anyone else.

-

A week later, back home, he still hadn’t spoken to the head.

On leaving the cabin, when he’d taken it out of the safe to put into his car, he’d rammed a blanket over the head and tied it up, and left it that way for the entire drive, until it could be locked up back home.

The doll had been indignant at first, but then only laughed behind its gag. Andy had no idea how the voodoo shit worked, if Chucky’s different ‘bodies’ shared thoughts, but presumably they did, as the now-human Chucky had known about the head. 

Back home, back in his life, he doesn’t try to date again. He doesn’t try to follow any murders on the news. He gives up on Nica. He is not called about the delivery man’s disappearance after stopping at the cabin, one small blessing.

He waits for a puzzled, or more likely horrified, call from his Mom, Kyle, Mike, that never comes. Chucky apparently hadn’t thought it worth calling them and telling them Andy’s dirty little secret. Perhaps he’d keep it hanging over Andy’s head. Blackmail him, fuck with him.

Though the silence could mean that Chucky was dead again. Just because he’d finally got himself into a human body, Andy didn’t think he would change his lifestyle. 

In this period, this wait for nothing, Andy spends weeks in a haze. He thinks of killing himself every day, but then thinks of botching it – of throwing up an overdose, not getting the aim right with the gun – and putting himself in a wheelchair for his Mom to worry about for the rest of her life. No.

So he does nothing, simply exists, and waits. Which is what he’d been doing anyway. Except now things were much more confusing. Now he had something to be ashamed of, something more than his own incompetence and weakness.

He’d liked it. Part of it was masochistic, thinking he’d die at any minute and the torment would finally be over, but part of it…wasn’t.

The call comes one empty night after he’s shut up shop and is doing his accounts. He lifts his head slowly to look at the phone, at the unknown caller on the screen. He picks up just before it can go to voicemail, knowing in his heart of hearts who it will be.

“Yo, sport. Miss me?”

Feeling his knees buckle, Andy reaches out to brace himself on the counter.

“What do you want?”

“Sorry it’s been so long. I’ve been having some domestic issues.”

“Domestic issues,” Andy repeats. But he’s almost a little relieved to hear the voice. He must be more fucked up than he’d ever given himself credit for. “Look, leave me alone. You said you didn’t want to kill me after all, so let’s just say we’re even, alright?”

“Yeah, but I’d quite like to fuck you again,” Chucky says instantly, his voice an octave lower. “And I think you’d like that too.”

“No.”

“Yeah, well, think about it.” There’s a sort of crash in the background, and what could be a child crying. “I gotta go, but I’ll see you real soon.”

“No you won’t. I won’t make it easy for you to get to me.”

“No?” Chucky says, laughing shrilly. “Man, that’s funny. You could go to the fucking moon and I’d still get to you.”

“Are you still in the same body?”

“Yeah. Why, you like it?”

A woman’s voice screams Chucky’s name in the background, and he hangs up abruptly. Andy stares into space for a moment. His heart is thumping horribly. Then something hardens in his chest.

He opens a drawer and pulls out a knife, one of his biggest.

Unhooks a key from around his neck and unlocks the padlock for the box he keeps the head in.

Inside, Chucky is gagged as always. He blinks at the other man impassively, seemingly unbothered by recent events or being kept locked up for so long.

Mindful of his fingers, Andy removes the gag.

“Yo,” is the first thing Chucky says. He barely glances at the knife in Andy’s hand.

Andy studies him, trying to gauge whether his choice of words was a coincidence or not.

Chucky was too impassive. He wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut if he knew what happened. He’d be laughing. He’d be saying things. He’d have a field day with Andy’s humiliation and self-loathing.

Cautiously, Andy asks. “Do you know what the others are doing?”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“You said you’re not the only one,” Andy emphasises. “As in, you have different bodies. Are you aware of what they all do? Do you communicate?”

Chucky smirks at this. “If I revealed all the ins and outs of my voodoo it wouldn’t be anywhere near as useful, now would it?”

They stare each other out. Chucky, _this_ Chucky, could know what happened, or he could just sense by Andy’s body language that something was up, and wanted to prolong his discomfort.

“I could make you tell me,” Andy says, tapping the board the head was nailed to with his knife.

“You fucked with me for months,” Chucky snorts. “You think a little more torture’ll make me do anything I don’t wanna do?”

Andy says nothing. He had a feeling this may have been the case. And anyway, he can’t bring himself to torture Chucky, even just the doll’s head, after sleeping with him. The urge died before it had really risen.

“Anyway,” the head says now. “How about a joint or something before you fuck me up? Feels like I been in there a long time.”

Against his better judgement, Andy does light up and let him have a few drags. He hoped it might make him loosen up and talk, but it wasn’t looking likely. At least the head doesn’t snap at his fingers this time when he pulls away.

“Your little Nica plan didn’t work then,” Chucky sneers.

Andy ignores this.

It’s been a while since he’d had to look at the head. He’d forgotten how repulsive it was. After sleeping with the now human Chucky, it was more unnerving than ever.

“What?” Chucky says, narrowing his single eye.

Andy looks away and doesn’t respond.

“You finally planning on melting me or somethin’?”

He’s too casual, too indifferent. There’s no way he could know.

“You don’t know,” Andy confirms out loud. The relief makes his head swim.

“I don’t know what?”

Andy doesn’t respond. Chucky was smart, this could be a game he was playing, but Andy doesn't think so. He likes to think he could read Chucky as well as the bastard could read him.

“What’s with you tonight?” Chucky complains. “Someone die or something?” He laughs at his own joke.

Andy doesn't bother answering. He puts the knife away, as a pizza he’d almost forgotten about begins to smell wonderful in the oven.

“Man, Chicago pizza,” Chucky sighs. “Wish I could eat.”

“Yeah,” Andy says. “I think I’m gonna put you away and do just that.”

“Then what was the point in getting me out?”

“What are you complaining about? You got your joint, and I didn’t hurt you.”

“Oh, are we buddies again?” he chuckles. “Next time we’ll have to have a movie night.”

Andy rams the gag back on and ties it a little tighter than before. The doll’s eye narrows as he watches him, keeps watching until Andy has put him back in the box and slammed it shut afterwards, relocking the chains. His heart is racing. He’s not hungry any more.

 _This_ Chucky, the head, didn’t know. Still. Andy wouldn’t be taking it out again any time soon.

-

He gets no further calls from Chucky, the human Chucky. And this is a good thing, he supposes. Though the fucker was probably just biding his time.

On the news, there had been no deaths that were linked to Nica, the delivery man, himself, or dolls. And no calls. But he's uneasy, knowing Chucky could come any time.

He doesn’t sleep well at night. He masturbates a few times (he _has_ to, he has to force himself to accept what happened and move on), but it doesn't help. He dreams about the now human Chucky, and once even about Chucky as Charles Lee Ray. 

_No-one's getting hurt,_ he thinks desperately, after he comes. _It's sick and disgusting, but no-one's getting hurt if he fucks me, if I enjoy it._

He avoids taking the head out after these nights. He wouldn't be able to meet his eye. 

This time, when the call comes, Andy has to force himself to wait a few rings instead of snatching it up right away.

“Andy,” Chucky says, and his voice makes Andy both relieved and nauseous at once. “Sorry to flake out on you, man. You won’t believe the year I’ve had.”

“I don’t want you to come here,” Andy says, forcing his voice steady.

“Yeah, well, I’m coming, like it or not. Next month.”

_“Don’t.”_

“Andy –“

“I mean, don’t come here,” he blurts. He thinks fast. “Because I won’t be here from next month. I’m – going back to that cabin.”

“What for?”

“None of your business.”

“Fine, I’ll see you at the cabin then. How romantic.” He sniggers, and then pauses. “But Andy, if this is just you sending me to an empty fuckin’ cabin, I will not be impressed.”

Andy swallows. “So is this how it’s gonna be now? You gonna come fuck me every few years instead of trying to kill me?”

“Not every few years,” Chucky says. “This year’s just been difficult. But I’m coming, I mean it. We need to talk.”

Andy’s about to respond when he hears children’s laughter in the background, similar to last time.

“Where the hell are you?” Andy demands. “That sounds like kids.”

“Yah, those are my kids.”

It takes a moment for these words to hit home.

“…you have kids? That’s where you’ve been?”

“I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Sure. Enjoy your nightmares.”

He cackles until Andy hangs up.

Chucky had _kids_. Through obviously freaky circumstances, but still, kids. Chucky had a _family_ , while Andy was living alone above a gun store, afraid to have so much as a fucking _pet_ in fear of the consequences.

He yanks the chain off his neck, breaking it, and opens the padlocked chains with the key.

Chucky raises his eyebrow when he sees him.

“Bad mood?” he drawls, when Andy rips the gag off.

Ignoring him, Andy sets him on the table and gets out the blowtorch, flicks it on. He holds it in his hand for a moment, willing the anger back.

After a moment, he flicks it off again. He can't do it. Like Chucky, when he had him tied up in the cabin, he can't go through with it, despite everything.

He shudders and puts the blowtorch to one side. 

“Pussy,” Chucky comments. “Want me to make fun of you to get you going?”

He swallows. “No thanks.”

The head chuckles in response. “Andy-baby, you’re more and more cracked every time I see you,” he sneers. “I can’t believe they let someone like you run a gun store, of all things.”

“Can you communicate with the rest of them?” Andy blurts. He looks at the head.

“What?”

“Your other bodies,” Andy snaps. “Just tell me, OK, it’s important. Do you know what they all do or not?”

Chucky narrows his single eye.

“Gimme a joint and maybe I’ll tell you.”

“I’m out. I don’t smoke that much.”

The doll scowls in annoyance.

“Fine, get me a fuckin’ cigarette then.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Well _go to the fuckin’ store then!”_

The head is glaring at him, vaguely terrifying even though he was just that, a head. Andy hadn’t seen him this mad in a long time.

It was a good thing, he supposed, to remind himself of what he was dealing with. The head getting aggressive was one thing. A full grown man who knew exactly how to hurt people was another story.

“Why d’you need to know so badly, anyway?” Chucky asks, calmer now, curiosity apparently getting the better of him.

“I’ll tell you if you tell me what I want to know.”

Chucky considers this. Then he sighs. “Fine,” he says through his teeth. “If it’s so fuckin’ important. But you’re staying off the blowtorch for at least a month, _and_ you’re going out to get me some cigarettes.”

“Sure,” Andy says. He doesn’t move. He looks at Chucky, waiting.

“…I can’t communicate with them,” Chucky admits. “Been tryin, but I can’t. I don’t know if they’re still alive or not, or what they do. I don’t even know how many there are. They could be spread across the state for all I know.”

Andy looks at him steadily.

“You could be lying.”

“I could be,” Chucky shoots back. “What are you gonna do about that?”

Andy breaks his gaze.

“I’ll go get your cigarettes.”

“Attaboy,” he has time to say just before Andy shoves the gag back in.

-

Chucky is impatient when Andy gets back, almost biting his fingers off when he removes the gag.

“Fucking _finally.”_

“You seem like you’re in a bad mood yourself,” Andy comments. But he puts the cigarette in his own mouth and lights up without hanging around.

“Being in a fucking box for months will do that to ya.” Chucky eyes the cigarette between Andy’s lips as he speaks. “Come on, gimme.”

As Andy puts the cigarette to his mouth, Chucky takes a deep drag and closes his eyes in bliss, letting out a moan surprisingly similar to the sound he makes when he comes. Thankfully, he is too blissed out to really notice Andy flinch at the sound.

“How can you still have a nicotine addiction in that body?” Andy asks quickly, drawing the cigarette away so Chucky can answer.

“Shut up, Andy,” he says, but he sounds mellow compared to before. “You and your fuckin’ questions.”

He allows Chucky another drag before his next question.

“What do you do in there, anyway?” Andy nods towards the box. He wants Chucky to loosen up.

“I make paper airplanes,” Chucky snaps. “What the fuck do you think I do?”

“Plot my death a hundred times over, more likely.”

The eye narrows. “More than you can count, buddyroo.”

“So you really can’t communicate with your other bodies?”

“ _No_ , goddamnit! Now let me finish this damn thing in peace, wouldja?”

Andy does so, holding it to Chucky’s lips without any further comment, taking care in case the head tries to bite.

“Fuck yeah,” Chucky moans as he smokes the last of the stub down to Andy’s fingers, who carefully avoids his lips. “You should take up smoking yourself, kid. Might help you relax.”

“I don’t think so.”

Chucky blinks a few times, eye coming back into focus, glinting with amusement, and Andy can see what’s coming.

“So, what’s the big deal with the other guys? What’ve they been up to?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Why? Did they fuck up pretty badly or something?” he chuckles. “I guess they must have, or you wouldn’t still be here.”

Andy looks away and says nothing.

“What’s _with_ you?” Chucky says now. “You look fucking traumatised. I hope I can take some credit, whatever it is, even if I’ve been stuck here.”

Andy ignores this. He thinks for a moment.

“If I were to kill someone,” Andy hears himself saying. “What’s the fastest and cleanest way to go about it?”

Chucky’s eyes widen. Then he smiles. “ _Now_ you’re talkin,’” he growls. “Take me with you and I’ll give you some tips. I’ll mentor you, I’ll help you out. I’m not kidding.”

“I know you’re not. But I don’t want that. This is just a one time thing I’m thinking about.”

“Oh, sure,” Chucky giggles. “Andy, it’s _always_ a one-time thing at first. Maybe one time you just lose your temper. Or maybe there’s just this one guy who really has it coming. But then it’s never a one-time thing. You know. Like losing your virginity. You can't go back. Or like drinking.” He smirks to drive his point home. “You start with one night a week, then a few nights a week, then a few drinks every night – and why not? A guy’s gotta relax somehow-”

“Are you gonna tell me the best way to do it or not?”

Chucky looks at him, annoyed.

“I thought you woulda seen enough over the years to get some inspiration.”

“That’s not what this is,” Andy growls. “This is for self-defence.”

“Self defence, self-shemence. Go to a fuckin’ self defence class, if that’s what you want,” Chucky growls back. “You dealt with _me_ , you went to military school, you own a fuckin’ gun store. You should be pretty good on the ‘self defence’ side by now.”

“I’m trying to prepare for a worse case scenario,” Andy says. “Over the years I’ve learned it’s always good to do that.”

“An-dy, how are you gonna kill a guy if you can’t even torture my little old head anymore?”

Andy looks away. “Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about too.”

The doll laughs. “Tell you what, let me do it for you. Let me into another body and I’ll do kill this asshole, free of charge, so to speak. A little gift from your friend to the end.”

Andy smiles at the idea of setting Chucky on himself.

“Yeah, right.”

“C’mooon, you must be tempted. A free hit. You know I’d get away with it.”

“Yeah, and then destroy everyone within a five mile radius afterwards, including me.”

“Well, some things are worth sacrificing, aren’t they?” he sings. “Some people just…really gotta go.”

“I’m thinking of going back to that cabin soon,” Andy says. “Less people around. Less messy.”

“Good,” the head says. “At least I got some fucking stimulation there. You forget I exist here.”

“I’ll make sure I make it up to you.”

“Very funny, asshole.” He glares at Andy, no longer amused. “I hope whoever’s after you fucks you up real good. I hope they let me watch.”

Andy’s hand twitches before he can hide it.

He reaches for the gag, when Chucky’s voice, predictably, turns sweet again.

“Hey, wait a minute, one more cigarette – please? Come on Andy, I was only messin’ with ya. You know I’d fuck someone up for you if I could. Now c’mon, one more cigarette.”

Rolling his eyes, Andy takes a second cigarette and lights up. “Keep your mouth shut or I’m putting this out in your eye.”

“Uh huh.”

Chucky smokes it slower this time, savouring it. Or just trying to piss Andy off. When he’s finished, he blows as much smoke as he could hold into Andy’s face, cackling as the other man erupts into coughs.

“Asshole,” Andy says, without much venom in it. “You’re not getting any more.”

“Come on Andy, lemme stay out for a bit,” he wheedles. “I’ll be nice, I promise.”

“No. I have things to do,” Andy says, picking up the gag.

“What things?” Chucky says sharply. “You don’t even go out anymore.”

Andy stares at him, startled.

“This is how it starts, y’know,” Chucky continues. “You become a loner, you fester in the past, get more and more warped, you think about killing someone…it’s only a matter of time when you take a few of those guns o’yours out in the streets.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

Chucky doesn't miss a beat.

“No, but it sounds like you, don’t it?”

“No. Don’t joke about shit like that.”

“Who says I’m joking?”

Andy eyes the lighter, and then the discarded flamethrower.

“Yeahhh, go ahead, bitch, I dare you,” Chucky taunts. “Come on, you fucking pussy, do it.”

Andy replaces the gag. The minute he does, Chucky starts to shriek behind it, cursing Andy every way known under the sun. Andy rolls his eyes.

“Fine, if you want to stay out so fucking badly you can stay out. Just shut up.”

Chucky shuts up at once. He looks surprised.

Andy doesn’t remove the gag, but he does leave him sitting there while he goes to the other room to finish the store accounts. He leaves him out while he does other things around the house, only going to put him back when he’s ready to go to bed himself. He doesn’t know why he does it.

When he puts the head away, the doll glares at him from behind the gag, but doesn’t attempt to speak. Andy doesn’t speak either. They maintain eye contact until Andy slams the box shut between them.

-

When he does drink, he can be more honest with himself.

It was fucked up, but that call from the human Chucky was almost a relief. Since he was a child, there was a constant tension in his blood that never really left. Whether he was alone or with others, even when he was in Afghanistan that time after Kent, even when he was on some remote Caribbean island in some relationship that didn’t work out, part of him was waiting for Chucky to come. And not only for him to come, but for him to _win_.

And he sort of had, after last time, in a human body stronger and taller than Andy’s, and not in a rage but in perfect calm, calculating, at an isolated location, in the perfect position to finish Andy off once and for all. And he, Andy, had been relieved that it was finally all over.

And then it wasn't. 

The call meant he was coming, even if the bastard took his time about it. And surely he really would kill Andy this time. Andy doesn't believe for a minute that the other man just wanted to fuck him again. 

Andy supposes he should consider himself lucky. Previously, Chucky had never given the luxury of a phonecall before dropping by to ruin his life again.

In this waiting period, when he does nothing but work and answer a few calls so people don't get too worried about him, he goes to a bar and ends up going back to some guy's house. He does it to try and get what happened out of his system (because now he’s definitely thinking of Chucky in a way that’s not only fear and hatred, and he can’t seem to stop).

But he doesn’t enjoy it (and doesn’t get anything out of his system). It was the only man he’d been with other than Chucky, because why the hell not, if he was going to die anyway, why not ask the bastard to choke him a bit and face up to what he wanted?

Only it got a little out of hand, and he didn’t enjoy it. He had bruises. He’d have to make something up when he took the head out. Chucky was a nosy son of a bitch.

“What’s the matter with you?” Chucky says, the second the gag is removed, before he'd even had a good look at the other man.

“Nothing.”

“C’mon Andy, you can tell me. Was it a bad date? Another redhead?”

“You wanna be out of the box or not?” Andy snaps.

“ _Fine,_ touchy. Put the TV on, I wanna see if Scary Spice won that lawsuit.”

Andy takes the doll through to the other room and switches on the TV. He didn't want to admit to the doll that he was struggling to stop himself from drinking if he was alone. That he was almost hoping for the human Chucky to lose patience and come for him, or for him to be able to do away with himself, if he could make it look like an accident. 

“Man, who did that to you?” Chucky says now, as the lamp illuminates the bruises on Andy's throat.

“I got in a fight in a bar.”

“Bullshit. You’re so not the kinda guy who gets into fights in bars.” He contemplates Andy for a minute. “Was it rough sex?”

Andy flinches, curses himself, but it’s too late, the head is already laughing.

“Well, well, you dark little bitch. You wanna tell them to tone it down though, whoever it is. They look like they really went for it.”

“Yeah, I forgot you’re such an expert on strangling people.”

The head continues to laugh and doesn’t respond.

Andy goes into the kitchen for a glass of water. The pull to the fridge, to beer or something harder, is strong. He wouldn't be able to kill himself. His survival instinct had evolved over the years to something ironcast. No matter how bad it got, no matter how much he loathed himself, he wouldn’t be able to do it.

He goes back in the living room.

“If you got into a body again,” Andy asks the head, sitting a distance away. “What would you do.”

“The possibilities are endless,” Chucky drawls. “But I think the first thing I’d do is cut your head off. Pity I can’t keep it in a box and torture it. I’d have to look into some more advanced voodoo.”

“That’s all you’d do?”

“I’m not like you kid, I’m not obsessive.”

Andy chuckles. “You, not obsessive. That’s really funny.”

“Why you askin’ anyway Andy, you too chickenshit to kill yourself?”

Chucky had an unnerving habit of doing this, of switching from a casual joke to honing in on Andy’s worst insecurities, that he thought he kept well hidden.

“You think I can’t tell?” the head continues, TV forgotten. “You haven’t been a happy bunny lately.”

“I don’t think I’ve been a happy bunny since I was five.”

“Yeah, but not like this,” Chucky insists. “You thinking of giving me a body again so I can finish you off? Putting you out of your misery’s the least I can do.”

“You’d probably just fuck it up again,” Andy says. “If you can’t kill a six year old, or an eight year old, how’d you plan to kill a full grown guy with a lot of weapons?”

For the first time, he feels a warmth spread through his chest and a smile tugging his lips, as he can see that, for once, Chucky is annoyed.

“You’d be surprised,” the doll says in a low voice.

Andy lets out a laugh. “Yeah, you’re right there. I’d be very fucking surprised, if you actually managed to do more than scratch me at some point in your many lives.”

Chucky stares at him.

“I’m achievin' something though, aren’t I?” he says “Even if it's not _me_ , per se. Something that’s made you so interested in my other bodies. Something that made you go out and buy me some fucking cigarettes so I’d tell you about them. Something that’s keeping you from fucking torturing me.”

Andy stares at him, all warmth gone.

Chucky smiles.

“Yeah, something’s getting to you, and it’s something to do with me.”

“That’s still not killing me,” Andy counters. “We’re talking about killing me.”

“I don’t think I’ll need to kill you, Andy,” he says. “I think you _will_ kill yourself, eventually. All right, it’s a slow burner, but you’re getting close, right? It’s just a matter of time.”

Andy gets up and leaves the room, feeling sick.

“…Andy?” he hears Chucky yell a moment later. “Get back here, all right? I didn’t mean it.”

Shaking, Andy still manages to laugh. In the kitchen, he sinks to the floor and leans his head against his drinks cabinet. It only had half a bottle of scotch in there, but still, he shouldn't touch it.

Chucky keeps yelling at him through the wall, alternately threatening and wheedling him. Andy’s glad, not for the first time, he chose to live above his store, in a location where he didn’t have to worry about neighbours. He keeps his eyes closed, forcing himself calm. 

When he returns, Chucky almost looks a little abashed.

“You are such a sensitive little bitch,” he complains quickly. “As if I meant it.”

“Why would I care if you meant it or not, Chucky,” Andy drawls. “Obviously you’d like it if I killed myself. But for the record, I’m more likely to put your head in the oven than my own.”

Chucky just looks at him, unconvinced. He doesn’t look particularly frightened. He never does, not even when Andy had come close to putting his remaining eye out.

“The offer still stands, kid,” he says, voice neutral, turning his eyes back to the TV. “If someone's bothering you, if you need me to fuck 'em up for you, I’ll do it.”

-

The next time Andy takes out the head, he thinks it is dead. The one eye is closed, skin harder, more…plastic looking than ever, and he is still. Andy stares at the head, not knowing what to do.

Eventually, the one eye peels open and focuses on him.

“What?” His voice sounds off too.

“Were you asleep?”

Chucky cracks a grin.

“You look worried.”

“Only that you’d escaped to another body, or something.”

The head chuckles to himself. He still does not look quite right. “How’s the guy who wants to kill you?”

“Funnily enough he hasn’t been around.”

“You always were a lucky son of bitch.”

“I don’t think it’s that. He’s one of those people, you know. Always flaking out.”

Chucky narrows his eye. “Well, you give him my regards.”

“Sure,” Andy says, smiling.

“What the fuck is so funny?”

“Nothing,” he says. “How’d you get into voodoo?” 

He'd had another recent unsuccessful session of googling. If Chucky had died now – the first time he died, that is, as Charles Lee Ray – he would be all over the internet, and everyone would know about his life. But in the eighties, the only news articles available were about his crimes. There was more on the internet about Andy these days than Charles Lee Ray. Andy can’t find shit about him, except he was a normal kid from New Jersey. Not even anything about his fucking job, if he had one.

Chucky blinks.

“The voodoo. How’d you get into it?” Andy repeats patiently. “Not like it’s a common hobby.”

Chucky rolls his eyes. “So I could have life after death, amongst other things.”

“That’s _why_ , not how.”

“And _why_ the fuck should I tell you?”

“More cigarettes?”

“You’ll have to do better than that.”

“I might have to go back on my promise on the blowtorch then.”

Chucky sneers at him and doesn’t respond, calling his bluff.

“OK then,” Andy says. “What ‘other things’ other than life after death?”

“None of your fuckin’ business.”

Andy takes him out of the box, and Chucky flinches slightly. _He thinks I really am going to torture him again_. Andy doesn’t correct him on the subject.

“You have a goal in it all?" Andy says, setting him on the table. "Or are you just planning to keep body swapping and killing people without ever dying?”

Chucky snickers. “You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

“So that is your goal?”

“Let’s talk about _your_ goals, Andy,” he sneers. “ _You’re_ the victim here right, not a fucked up old bastard like me. So let’s talk about you. You have any aspirations in life aside from just, y’know, stayin’ alive? You have anything that makes you happy? I least I fucking enjoy myself once in a while. You talk to me about goals, and I’m head in a box that you bring out for company. What about _your_ goals, asshole?”

Andy closes his eyes briefly. They’d had similar conversations whenever Andy had brought up Chucky's past before, though Chucky had never been quite this vicious before. 

“For the hundredth fucking time,” Andy growls. “I do not bring you out for company. I thought you would’ve figured that out by now.”

“No? Cos torture doesn’t seem to be your thing anymore, and neither does going on dates, so –“

“Chucky,” he warns. “Shut up.”

He couldn't live like this.

He would go back to the cabin, and he would force Chucky, the human Chucky, to kill him, in the ‘self defence’ he’d been so sneering of. Chucky had said it himself in the cabin, that he thought of letting Andy go and them having a fair fight. 

And Andy had…what? Refused the offer to be untied. Because he thought he'd been offering himself up for slaughter, not for...what happened. Not to have his head fucked with, his last nerve shattered. No. He'd call the fucker himself and tell him to come to the cabin. Call his Mom and Kyle one last time, and take all the scotch he wanted. And end this, one way or another.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was meant to be a oneshot, I swear.

Of course the snow would be even worse this time. Just his luck. The roads may even be shut, and then he’d be completely cut off. With Chucky. This was the plan all along, but part of him still wants to run.

At least he got his truck back. Chucky had at left it parked in the nearest town for the police to turn up. There was even some gas left in it. Andy was used to his truck, and in these conditions you needed a vehicle you were used to.

He eases his foot off the accelerator unconsciously. He wasn’t the cockiest of drivers at the best of times. His Dad had died in a wreck, and his Mom had been in one the last time he’d been out here, what already felt like years ago. The irony is not lost on him, driving to his potential death at Chucky’s hands, and still taking care with his driving. But dying was one thing. Breaking his legs and lying in agony for hours in snow was something else altogether.

Did he tell Chucky how his Dad died? Probably. Andy vaguely remembers telling him everything when he was six, full of love and trust. And he remembers Chucky tolerating it. Tolerating his chatter, playing with him, patting his head absently when he clung to the doll during a thunderstorm. Tolerating it all so Andy wold trust him enough to take him to _an old pal called Eddie_ and do whatever Chucky wanted.

He wonders if Chucky has much experience of driving in snow like this. How ironic it would be if _he_ was the one who skidded and impaled himself on a tree.

Not that it would matter. He’d just come back as always.

The car slips a fraction of an inch then, enough to make his heart skip. It narrowly comes back under his control. He takes a breath, slows down even further.

The slip gets him thinking though.

One moment of courage. That's all it would take. A horrible accident, and his Mom wouldn’t be as devastated as she would if she knew the truth. This was why he held on to his cabin out here in the middle of nowhere. He told his Mom he came out here to write. 

Thinking this, how ironic it is when the car skids again, for real this time, his instinct is to fight. Whatever he told himself otherwise, the fierce thing in him that had kept him going for this long wants to live.

-

He wakes covered in glass and snow. It takes him a moment to realise he is upside down. Then he inches his arms out, and his legs, taking care with the glass. Nothing broken. He turns his head, wincing when it jars. It’s strangely silent. It takes him a moment to realise why.

“Chucky?”

His voice sounds off, a rasp in the silence.

Trembling, fumbling free of his seatbelt, he reaches over and pulls open box. A shudder goes through him as he sees at once that Chucky really is dead this time. The head is hardened, eye half-closed. His gut wrenches even though this means nothing, the human Chucky is on his way here now. He turns away, feeling sick. 

After a moment he pulls his coat on and manages to wriggle out. There’s a buzzing in his head. 

Too shaken to stand, he crawls away from the car and collapses at what felt like a safe distance away. Dimly, he's aware of the cold seeping into his clothes. He stuffs his ungloved hands into his pockets.

He may have stayed like that long enough to get hypothermia, when something starts to buzz inside his clothes. His phone. At least that had survived. Shaking, he manages to pull it out before he can drop it.

“Yo. Are you there yet?"

Andy doesn’t answer.

_“Hello?”_

“…I just flipped my truck.”

There’s a little pause. “I always thought you’d make a shit driver.” There’s no humour in his voice. “Where are you?”

He doesn't respond. Where was he? It was a stretch of road and nothingness. And why was he speaking to Chucky? He should call an ambulance.

“Never mind," Chucky says. "I think I can see your headlamps.”

Sure enough, two additional beams pull into view. Andy closes his eyes to shield them, shoving the phone into his pocket. He does it too fast, winces at the pain that flares down his back.

Somewhere above him, he hears Chucky cut the engine, and then the crunch of footsteps. 

"Andy," he chides. “I knew it. You really do wanna die.”

He comes to a stop above Andy, somehow even more terrifying in the headlamps. He is the same man, the same delivery man’s body. His red hair blows around his face, hair just like the doll’s. Only he’s human sized now, taller than Andy, stronger, more capable. Looking down at Andy. Probably assessing whether Andy was too injured to be fucked or not. Andy flinches when he comes closer, grimacing as it hurts his neck.

“Hey, take it easy.”

When his vision steadies, he sees Chucky is holding out his hand. He keeps it there until Andy takes it and hauls him up in one easy motion. He holds on. “You all right?”

“I think your head’s dead.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s had a good run when you think about it, considering all you’ve put it through,” he runs a gloved thumb across Andy’s palm. This steadies him, somehow. He’s able to ground himself more easily, knees no longer on the verge of buckling. “But don’t worry,” Chucky adds. “I’m still here. You’ve only lost a little bit of me.”

“Oh fuck you,” Andy mutters, pulling his hand free. “I’d like to lose you all of you, every last bit of you.”

“Now we both know that’s not true." He yanks Andy back by the collar and kisses him. Andy grabs hold of him by reflex, a little sound of surprise escaping into the heat of their mouths. After a moment Chucky pushes him back. "Fuck, you're all wet."

“Then let me in your car, asshole. I’m fucking freezing.”

“You’re the one who wanted to meet here,” Chucky points out. “I could have come to Chicago.”

Andy doesn't bother arguing. 

Chucky has a truck similar to Andy’s. Heat engulfs him as he sinks in his seat, and Chucky cranks it up higher before they pull away.

Andy thinks vaguely of the head they’re leaving behind. Whoever found it would just think it was a movie prop, or something. Since the _Chucky Goes Psycho_ franchise, something that made Andy sick to this day, there was no end to weird Chucky paraphernalia in the world. Chucky probably found it hilarious if he knew.

Andy also realises, with more pain than he cared to admit, that he’d left the scotch in the truck. He tries not to think about it. 

“Slow down,” he tells Chucky.

“Right,” Chucky says, easing off the gas. Still too fast for Andy’s liking, but whatever. He closes his eyes, savouring the heat, until he feels something drop in his lap. He opens his eyes and sees Chucky’s gloves.

“You won't be as cute if you lose your fingers.”

“Thanks for the concern,” Andy mutters, but shoves the gloves on anyway. They are fleeced inside and warm from Chucky’s hands.

He looks out of the window again, away from the other man. Even though he’d been speaking to the head, to what was essentially also Chucky, almost every day, confronting the human Chucky brought a whole new level of everything. Fear, anger, shame, lust, relief.

He speaks in a monotone to keep Chucky from picking up on this.

“So how come you knew about the head?”

“Huh?”

“The head,” Andy repeats. “How could you know about the head but the head didn’t know about you? Or did it?”

“’The head’ was pretty fuckin’ tired,” Chucky says, taking a cigarette out of his jacket pocket. “It was barely functioning. It wasn’t capable of much outside of staying alive.”

“It didn’t act tired,” Andy says, vaguely disturbed by the idea of the head slowly dying. He had no idea.

“Well what did you expect, it to start cryin’ and begging? Come on, Andy.”

He glances at Chucky warily.

“What do you want me to do with it?”

Chucky shrugs. “Keep it. I can bring it back to life.”

“I don’t want to keep it.”

Chucky laughs in reply.

When they get to the cabin, he abandons Chucky and locks himself in the bathroom. He stays under the shower for a long time, sighing with relief. He'd been in more pain than he realised. Maybe he should have gone to hospital. 

Under the water, he traces the slash from Chucky's knife on his thigh, the skin was hard beneath his fingers. It was a helpful physical reminder, like the one on the back of his ankle, of what he was dealing with.

He tries to remember what he was doing here. To kill Chucky. Or be killed by him, because he couldn’t live in the constant fucking limbo that was his life anymore. He’s so tired all of a sudden.

Reaching up to turn off the water, he leans his head against the wall for a moment, needing a drink. He should have gone back for the fucking scotch. If this Chucky really couldn’t communicate with the head, he wouldn’t know Andy was damn near an alcoholic. Assuming he lived through the night, Andy would have to drive back tomorrow, or failing that to the nearest store.

He leaves the bathroom and goes to the bedroom for the spare clothes he kept around. He came out here whenever the thought of suicide grew a sharper edge, suicide grew more of an edge, and so he has spare clothes, food in the cupboards and the freezer, an internet connection, weapons, drink. A while back, he'd sued the makers of _Chucky Goes Psycho_ for digging into his past and attempting to (falsely) portray him in the franchise, and had, to his amazement, won the suit. He’s no millionaire, but thanks to that he’s well off enough to keep renting the cabin and not worry too much about the gun store's profits.

He eases himself into new clothes, wincing as parts of him twinge in protest.

In the living room, he's glad to see Chucky had had the sense to start the fire, though he is nowhere to be seen. Andy's too tired to care what he could be doing. Now the head's out of the picture, there's nothing in the cabin he has to hide.

He sits himself on the rug next to the fire, closing his eyes for a moment to savour the heat. 

When Chucky does return, Andy tries not to look relieved when he sees Chucky has a drink in each hand.

He draws his knees in unconsciously when the other man sits beside him, setting their drinks down.

“Take it easy,” Chucky says. He runs a hand through Andy’s hair, who hates himself for leaning into it. The other man chuckles. “You and your nine lives, huh.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“At least I have the decency to actually die once in a while.”

Andy pulls away from his hand.

“Relax, Andy-boy. I’m not gonna hurt ya.”

Andy eyes at him warily even so. The other man watches him also, looking amused. 

“Why are we here?”

“You got a concussion or somethin’? You told me to come.”

“You said you were coming for me, so if you were going to come I wanted it to be here.”

“Why?”

Andy doesn’t reply. He’s not sure himself. It seemed safer. That was the reason. No-one else would get hurt, whatever happened. If he didn’t want to live anymore and didn’t want to cause his Mom any more pain -

“So I could kill you with no-one else around to get in the way?” Chucky prompts, eyebrows raised. “Cos you’re too chickenshit to do it yourself?”

“Why aren’t you killing me?”

“We’ll get to that.”

Chucky shifts closer and starts rubbing his back. Andy sighs, feeling an old, old tension leave him. He’s so _tired_. Might as well let whatever happens happen. He shifts and rests his head in the other man’s lap. It feels like defeat. But it also feels like relief.

He stares into the fire as Chucky strokes his hair idly. He remembers being six and having to drop that match. The relief of it, and the pain that came after. His friend had hurt him, lied to him, and now his friend was gone forever.

“I thought fire might make you nervous,” he murmurs.

Chucky titters. “Nothin’ makes me nervous.”

His hand trails down and tilts Andy's jaw up with his thumb. He trails his fingers over the fading bite-marks around Andy's collarbone.

“So you’ve been getting some action, huh,” he drawls. “Who did this to you?”

Andy frowns, then remembers this human Chucky apparently couldn’t remember the conversations he’d had with the head.

“None of your business.”

“Did you think about me?”

He pushes Chucky’s hand aside and doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t move away from his lap.

“Bitch had big teeth,” Chucky continues, threading his fingers through Andy’s hair again. “Unless it was a dude.” He pauses. “Was it a dude?”

“Does it matter?”

“I bet it was a dude. It’s definitely a dude who almost strangled you here. You wanna be careful, Andy.”

“Fuck you.”

Chucky snickers and starts playing with his hair again.

Despite the anxiety, Andy feels himself uncurling inside, years worth of tension finally melting.

Something happens to him inside, a kind of warmth that makes him feel warm, held. Safe. Something that couldn't possibly be natural. 

“What are you doing?” he murmurs.

“Kinda hard to explain."

He doesn’t like the sound of this. But it feels so good he couldn’t bring himself to tell him to stop.

“Relax.” Chucky says, sensing his unease. “It only lasts a minute. Not all voodoo is the dark stuff.”

It's hard to say how long it lasts. A few minutes, maybe, only it feels as if he's had a full night's recovery sleep. He has no idea what happened, only that he's now warm, rested, alert, lingering aches gone. He sits up and shifts back, away from the other man, who is watching him.

“Better?”

“You could’ve asked first.”

“You’d have said no. And you do feel better, don’t ya?”

Andy just glares at him.

“Don’t do your weird voodoo shit to me again.”

Chucky snickers and pats his knee. “Sure, pal. I’ll just let you suffer next time.”

“Why are you here?” Andy snaps. “What do you want?”

Chucky rolls his eyes. “I _should_ have just let you suffer.”

_“Chucky.”_

There’s a little silence. For an awful moment Andy thinks he may have gone too far, that he shouldn't be ordering Chucky about. That the other man might be about to push his head into the fire. But Chucky doesn’t so much as scowl. 

“OK, fine,” Chucky sighs. “If you must know, I had good intentions last time. I _did_ plan on killing you. Only I couldn’t. And that’s why I didn’t come back sooner. I _wanted_ to want to kill you again but I couldn’t. I can't." He laughs at himself. "I can’t kill you, I can’t hurt you, I can’t even _pretend_ I wanna fucking hurt you, not anymore. So there you go.”

Andy stares at him. He thinks of the conversations he'd had with the head lately.

“Your head seemed to think otherwise.”

Chucky rolls his eyes. “I really will bring that thing back to life if you love it so fucking much.”

Andy just keeps staring at him, waiting.

Chucky shrugs and sips his drink, reminding Andy of his, who picks it up and grips it tight. “What do you want me to say? You’re never gonna get over me Andy, and I don’t think I wanna get over you either. So here we are.”

He wants to argue, finds he can't. 

“And you feel better now I’m here, don’t you,” Chucky continues. “Admit it. And it’s OK,” he adds, seeing Andy about to protest. “ _Feel_ better. Sell the gun store. You don’t need it anymore. Do whatever the hell you want. And I’ll still be around - not fucking up your life. It’s very simple.”

“…N-no,” Andy says, when Chucky seems to expect some sort of response. “I mean, it’s too fucked up.”

Chucky snorts. “I wasn’t exactly suggesting we get fucking married overnight.”

“Then what are you suggesting?”

Chucky doesn’t answer for a while.

“It’s time to unfuck your life, Barclay,” he says eventually. “That’s what I’m suggesting.”

His heart is hammering. He finds he can’t quite look Chucky in the eye. It unnerved him, how even without hearing Chucky's voice, he could sort of…tell it was Chucky in front of him. Something about the eyes. Andy had thought his eyes were similar to the doll’s, but now he realises they are closer to Chucky’s original eyes, his human eyes that Andy had only seen in the few photos he could dig up. Charles Lee Ray’s eyes. He takes another sip of his drink.

“Why are you here?” Andy asks again. “You said you have kids. Why aren’t you with them?”

“That’s where voodoo comes in very handy again.”

“Yeah, but, what for? Why not just forget about me and stay with them?”

“Because, Andy,” he growls. “I can’t just…fucking leave you. Even if I promise to go away forever, you won’t believe me, and nothing will change, you won’t get over me, so I might as well just stick around if I want to.”

“You _have_ to go away forever,” Andy says, his hand trembling. “I can’t do this. It’s too fucked up.”

Chucky snorts. “Everything’s fucked up, Andy-boy. Learn to roll with it. And anyway, you never really expected me to go away forever. You brought me out here in case I'd kill you, because you don’t have the balls to do it yourself.”

Chucky leaves the silence open for Andy to explain himself, to deny it.

Andy swallows and looks away. He downs the last of his drink, and it makes it easier for him to speak.

“You know, just before I crashed the car, I was thinking about it. Crashing. On purpose. With the weather and all, it'd look like an accident. But then when it skidded by itself, I did everything I could to save myself.”

The other man chuckles. “You’d be amazed at what you can do when it means staying alive.”

“No shit.”

He wraps his arms around his knees. He feels better for having said it. It's the first time he'd admitted to that side of him out loud. And now he’s started, he thinks he may as well keep going. Sleeping with Chucky and thoughts of suicide were two of the three things he was most ashamed of.

He may have already told the head what he’s about to say, when he’d been drunk, but he can’t remember.

“When I was a teenager,” he says, looking at his glass instead of at Chucky. “When I was probably at my most fucked up, I had this really awful foster family, and it got so bad that at one point that I thought of trying to bring you back, just so I could get out of there.”

Chucky lets out a little laugh of disbelief. “S’all coming out now, huh,” he says. “I underestimate you, I really do. So you assumed, what, that I’d take care of them, you’d take care of me and you’d get away scot free? Really?”

“Well, that’s sort of what happened before.”

Chucky snorts. He inches closer again, and Andy lets him, lets himself sink down and rest his head in his lap again.

Chucky is quiet for a minute.

“How bad?” 

“I don’t want to go into it.”

“Cos if we’re talking, like, child molesters –“

“No. God. Nothing like that. I was moved on in the end anyway. This was just before I got sent to Kent.” He pauses. “And I wouldn’t have really done it.”

“Done what exactly?” Chucky sounds amused. “How would you have got the remains of the doll? How would you have known the chant? Cos I seem to remember you being unconscious for that part.”

“I found a few books that…” he stops when he feels Chucky stiffen.

“You actually looked into it?”

“N-not really,” he says. “There was so much contradictory stuff, so much bullshit, I sort of gave up. But I wouldn’t have actually done it," he says hastily. "I was just, trying to understand…” he trails off as Chucky starts laughing.

“Man, they must have been real fucking cunts if you actually considered bringing _me_ in the picture. I kind of wish you’d pulled it off. You remember their names?”

“I wouldn’t have really done it, I said. It was just…a fucked up time.”

“So you didn’t try anything?”

“Voodoo? No. Obviously." He pauses, sensing his chance. "But maybe you can explain some things to me about that. Like about your other bodies.”

Chucky goes vague again. “Hm.”

He pushes Chucky's hand away and sits up, finds him looking vaguely annoyed, like the head had. Still, he has to try.

“How does that work? You communicate with them or what?”

“Sorta. It’s more of a direct split. I’m…aware of them.”

“How many?”

“At the moment, now my head’s kicked it, just one more.”

“What about the ones at Lockmore?”

“They’re gone. Nica managed to finish them off. Or someone there did, anyway.”

“You’re not lying?”

“No.”

Andy wouldn't be able to tell if he is anyway.

“So where’s that one other body?" He persists. "Is it a doll?”

“Yeah. It’s with my ex wife.”

“Tiffany.”

“Yah.”

“And your kids?

“With her in LA. But she’s thinking of moving. She’s tired of the lifestyle.”

“I’m surprised you told me about them.”

“Why? You won’t hurt them.”

“How do you know? Pretty big chance to take, isn’t it?”

“Nah, not at all. You’re not a bad guy, Andy.”

Andy doesn’t argue. He'd just wanted to see what happened if he said it.

“How does this ‘awareness’ work then?” he persists instead.

Chucky rolls his eyes. “I’ll lend you some books if it’ll shut you up,” he says. “But you have to learn French or Creole for the _really_ good stuff.”

“ _You_ know French and Creole?”

“I know enough.” As Andy keeps looking at him, he rolls his eyes and relents. “I’ll tell you what's in them. I'll tell you whatever you want.”

“You will?”

“Sure.”

Andy didn't really believe him, but it was further than he'd got with the head. 

He tries to think of what else he'd wanted to talk about. Outside, the wind is almost howling. They are most definitely stuck here for at least the rest of the night. He needs to think of something else. “I don’t think what you were saying before will work.”

Chucky looks annoyed.

“Well, you got any better ideas, I’d love to hear ‘em.”

Andy says nothing, but Chucky reads it on his face.

“You kill yourself and I’m bringing you back into the first guy I like the look of. So don’t say you weren’t warned.”

Andy glares at this.

“ _Why_ , goddamnit? Why don’t you just leave me alone?”

“We’ve been through this, asshole.”

“Fuck you.”

He needs another drink to process the things he’d been told, but Chucky's hand shoots out and grabs his wrist before he can stand.

"Andy. Wait." He waits for Andy to give a half-hearted struggle and slump back down. "For the record, I am sorry for everything.” 

They sit in silence for a while. Andy doesn't know what to say to this. Part of him – a pretty big part – is relieved, somehow. He’s ashamed of how comfortable he is with the idea of Chucky remaining in his life. 

As if reading his mind, Chucky picks up his hand and starts playing with his fingers.

“So anyway,” he says. “I'm here now. And I’ll sleep on the couch if you really want me to. But I don’t think you do.”

Andy tenses, saying nothing, but imagines Chucky can sense his arousal.

Sure enough, his hand moves down to Andy’s belt.

“Lie down.”

The order sends a little shiver down his spine. Despite everything, he got such a thrill out of this. He’s more twisted than any newspaper or social worker ever gave him credit for.

He lies down. Shaking, he fists the rug in both hands as Chucky undoes his jeans, as he gets hard faster than he ever had in his life. 

“Why do you want me?” he blurts. His own depravity he was used to, but he’s genuinely curious about Chucky, about whether he was still doing this for the fun of it, or if he was vaguely disturbed too.

Chucky growls against his skin. “ _I don’t, fucking, know.”_

He's so annoyed it's almost funny, and Andy finds himself laughing. It turns into a cry as his cock’s engulfed in heat. Blindly, he claws at the rug again and redoubles his grip. 

“Oh my god.”

Chucky makes a little noise of satisfaction around his cock. 

He can't last. He releases the rug to grab at Chucky's hair instead, that fucking red hair he'd had nightmares about half his life, and holds Chucky down, pleading with him without knowing what he's saying.

He comes in Chucky's mouth, almost sobbing with relief. 

Chucky draws back slowly. Andy's cock twitches feebly as he does.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

The other man chuckles.

Andy keeps his eyes closed until he's ready to sit up, only for a hand to his chest forcing him down again, and letting him taste himself in Chucky's mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So unhappy with this chapter but no point overediting.
> 
> Next chapter is Chucky POV. 
> 
> Thank you for all and any comments! Really appreciate them.


	4. Chapter 4

A few days of fucking and Chucky can’t hold off any longer.

In the night, when Andy’s fallen asleep in his arms (and it didn’t take as long as he expected, Andy trusting him enough to sleep next to him like this every night, and to sleep through without any nightmares), he puts Andy into a _real_ sleep. A harmless one. Just for an hour or so. He _has_ to know what’s gone down with Andy and the head over the years, that hidden part of his conscious. The snatches of half-memories and familiarity had been driving him crazy.

Before he came out here, Chucky had attempted, multiple times, to fill in the gaps, when he was in his apartment alone or at Tiffany’s after the kids had gone to bed, when she was out attempting to get laid. The gaps where, for some reason, he was cut off from himself aside from a few vague memories and feelings here and there. And he couldn’t let it go. He needed to know if there had been some underlying pull for him to fuck Andy, other than it had seeming like a good idea at the time.

Being unable to kill the brat had thrown him. He killed everyone. Anyone. That time he'd stabbed the pregnant Sarah in the stomach, he fully made his peace with who he was and what he was capable of.

So he had been trying, only his books and voodoofordummies.com hadn’t proved helpful. They told him what to do, but not what to do if it _didn’t_ work, which it didn’t. He should have kept John around after all.

He needs to try one final time with Andy (and the head, to some extent) in proximity rather than another state. Plus the fact that he and Andy had been fucking and growing closer the past week would maybe, somehow, help. He’s lucky he's achieved what he has with his voodoo. He pretty much made it all up as he went along and hoped not to fuck himself up too badly each time round.

During his recent unsuccessful attempts at linking up his own memories, he’d also experimented to see if he could get at Andy’s instead. The resulting agony had left him on his back for weeks. In the voodoo code of ethics, murder and taking over souls was apparently a-ok, but invasion of mental and emotional privacy apparently a big no-no. Go figure.

He has to know what he and Andy had been talking about over the four years or so he'd been captive. All right, maybe there hadn’t been that much chitchat, maybe they’d barely spoken at all, but Chucky doesn’t think so. He feels it. He remembers, sort of, only 'feels' it more than ‘remembers’ Andy growing…not exactly comfortable around him, but used to him. Talking to him. Telling him things.

And he 'remembers' his own hatred and rage merging into something that was almost...respect. Which he still feels. The way Andy had turned out. He was probably the only person in the world Chucky could consider a match for himself, in both interpretations of the word.

Also, he doesn’t _want_ to want Andy. Fucking him was fine, but not being able to forget about him was something else. Whatever affection Chucky had in him he wanted to keep for Glen and Glenda, and to some extent Tiffany. 

So he’ll try, one final time, with Andy in his little sleep so he won’t walk in and freak the fuck out if he catches Chucky doing voodoo. One final attempt to understand how the hell he had come to want Andy so badly.

Chucky pulls down the ladder and climbs up into the attic, where he’d been going to call his kids every night. Not just because of the signal and because Andy was still slightly freaked out at their existence, but because he kinda liked it up there. He sits by his preferred spot against the wall and closes his eyes. He hadn’t brought the book out here with him. He’d attempted this so many times now that he knew the spell by heart.

He's unprepared for it when it works.

The force of it almost a physical blow to his skull – the pain of the torture, the banter, the smell of the box and his own burnt, plastic flesh, the joints, Andy’s dates, his drinking, his gun store, the calm he constantly projected, his toneless humour, how slowly, slowly, they’d exchanged a joke here and there, how Andy started letting him out the box more often, for more than just torture, Chucky watching him over the years, his hate easing into something that wasn't quite hate, trying to hate him, the _want_ he’d felt, to be more than just a head on a fucking board. Telling himself that he’d kill Andy slowly if only he could, knowing he wouldn't.

With a shudder he opens his eyes. His chest cramps, and he lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. 

_That’s what happened. I_ fell _for the fucking bastard._

He is shaking.

_“Shit.”_

Fists balled, he sits there panting until the light changes. Dawn. How long had that taken? How many fucking memories did he have? He’s scared to examine the blur that is his head in case it exploded.

Maybe that was why it had been difficult. Maybe that many memories and feelings, years' worth, was too much of a brain-fuck to be safe. He’d have to be careful about splitting in future. 

Why hadn't he left the fucking head _alone._ Why had he needed to connect the dots so badly? If he didn’t remember all this shit, he might have got over Andy, or might have been happy just fucking him until the kid finally lost it and blew his brains out.

He shudders, and takes another breath.

He knew all along that he had felt something for Andy. Something more than enjoying how hilarious and messed up it was to fuck him. He’d even made his peace with the fact that part of him had come to be possessive and even protective of the little shit. But this…

His mouth is dry. He realises, dimly, that he is soaked in sweat. And he can’t leave Andy in his little sleep forever.

He gets up, wincing at the stiffness in his joints.

Climbs down the ladder, forces himself back into the bedroom. His heart lurches all over again when he looks at the little bastard, still in the same position from when Chucky had been curled around him.

 _Kill him_ , part of him suggests, a dull reflex, and a meaningless one. For once, killing wouldn't solve a problem.

No, he can’t leave Andy in his enhanced sleep forever, and he can’t kill him. Whatever happens, Chucky will just have to roll with it.

After a moment he laughs. It helps, a little.

“Fucking damn it, Andy,” he says out loud.

The first fingers of sunlight stretch through the window, over the bed.

Andy might wake up horny, he realises. Their souls had come close when Chucky put him to sleep, and the other man would feel it vaguely even if he wasn't consciously aware of it.

He goes for a shower, changes, and then goes back to return Andy to his normal sleep. And he doesn't hang around, shoving on his parka and boots and heading for the door. He remembers just in time to snatch up the key.

The air is bitter outside of the warmth of the cabin, but the storm had abated. He gets a cigarette out of his pocket, fumbling slightly through the clumsiness of his gloves, and leans his elbows against the deck. He glances at the truck, but knows that abandoning Andy in the night would be crueller than killing him.

A couple of deer come from nowhere, snuffling in the snow. They freeze and eye him anxiously for a moment, before deciding he’s not a threat and carry on snuffling at a safe distance. Chucky narrows his eyes and watches them, thinking nothing, feeling nothing but the air and the cold.

The door jerks open when he’s almost at the end of his cigarette. Andy lurches out blinking, half dressed, and stops mid-step at the sight of him.

“I thought you left.”

He sounds relieved to find he hasn’t. Chucky has to squash down his own relief at this.

Andy ducks back inside, and Chucky is unsurprised when he returns a moment later in his own parka and gloves. He comes to lean on the deck at Chucky's side, his eyes also finding the deer. They had almost bolted when he burst out the door, but now they are watching, waiting to see if it's safe to venture back.

“How come you’re up?” Andy asks, usual tonelessness returning.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Chucky says shortly. It was sort of true.

The deer flick their ears and inch closer.

Andy nods slowly.

“You’ve been so blasé about everything," he says. "It’s good to know you find this really fucking weird too.”

Chucky’s laugh comes out hard.

“Even I have my fucking limits.”

Andy glances at him. For barely a second, but it’s enough.

“You’re mad about something.”

_Little bastard._

“No, I’m not.” He is though. He’s fucking furious at Andy, at himself, at the world. And now Andy is tense too. He relents. “At least, not at you.”

Andy doesn’t ask, but he doesn’t move away and go back inside either. They watch the deer together, who keep a wary eye on them too.

“You bring a gun?” Chucky jokes after a moment, in a poor attempt to lighten the mood.

Andy snorts, unimpressed. “You touch them and I’ll shoot you myself.”

“Relax, deer are too easy a target.”

“Have you ever killed an animal?”

“…no,” he answers honestly, slightly surprised by the question. “ ’less eating steak counts. Have you?”

“No,” he says. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever killed.”

“Thing. Nice. Thanks.”

“I mean, on the spectrum of humans and animals.”

“Again, thanks.”

Andy laughs, and the tension dissipates just a touch.

Chucky’s about to shift and close the distance between them when Andy turns serious again.

“I need to talk to you about something.”

 _Not now_ , Chucky prays. He wants to sleep or fuck or for them lie on the bed together with a joint listening to Pink Floyd again. The last thing he wants is to Talk.

Out loud, he says. “Yeah?”

“About Nica.”

Chucky groans inside. He feels Andy’s eyes on him when he doesn’t respond.

“You can’t just leave her to rot in there like you did with my mother.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says tiredly. He’d have to think of something. Once he’d slept, and processed the fucking mess that was now his mind.

“And you can’t just kill everyone at Lockmore and let her out,” Andy continues. “I mean, this has to be a long term thing. She has to be released legally and be able to live her life.”

“...how the fuck do you suggest I do that exactly?" Chucky demands. "You give me too much credit, kid. I know a little voodoo but I’m not a fucking wizard. I can’t turn back time or brainwash tons’a people.”

“Think of something,” Andy tells him. “Get her out without killing anyone.”

“It’ll take months then, probably, by law. Years, even.”

“See what you can do.”

The little shit. Chucky thought he’d been poker-faced these past few days, but Andy had obviously gotten an inkling of how much Chucky cared about him.

“You are such a pain in my ass,” he complains out loud. But it is a subdued complaint. He’ll do it. He’ll do anything Andy asks from him. He can’t _not_ , after everything he’d put the little bastard through. “ _Fine_. I’ll try. But just to manage your expectations, rescuin’ people isn’t exactly my forte.”

“You don’t say.”

Chucky sneers and flips him off, but even this is half-hearted. He’s already thinking, even while his head has begun to pound with exhaustion. 

\--

He has the weekend with his kids when he gets back to LA, housesitting while Tiff wraps up on her latest movie. His kids are back from some winter camp, too full of stories and excitement to notice anything up with him. And he lets it wash over him, enjoying their bullcrap, their presence and their love. He's realising more and more that he doesn't deserve the people he has.

He and Tiffany had not had much time to talk when she left, for which he’s grateful. She’s due back tonight, and he hopes she'll be either too tired or too full of bullcrap stories to examine him too closely.

He's leaning on her balcony, kids in bed, when her limo pulls up. 

He watches idly as they both get out, the driver retrieving his own car from the garage and disappearing into the night after they exchange a joke and a goodbye. A new driver, Chucky notes, the fifth. He had no idea if she was killing them or getting rid of them after she fucked them or just pissing them all off.

She looks up then, spotting him, and he raises a hand. She waves back jauntily and lets herself into the house.

He hears her come the stairs and check on the kids, and hopes (without much hope) that she is tired.

His hope is dashed when she lets herself into the room and says, with no preamble,

“So what the hell is going on with you and Andy?”

“…Whaddya mean,” he responds neutrally, without turning to face her. He didn’t like telling her things at the best of times.

“Are you…?” She comes out on the balcony and lowers her voice meaningfully, as if their kids might be listening. Which they could well be, knowing them. “ _You_ know.”

“Fucking?” he says, just as neutrally. “You can say it Tiff, we’re not in kindergarten.”

“So you are.”

“Yeah. Well. We did. Who knows how long he’ll let me keep doing him.”

She shakes her head and takes out a cigarette of her own. “The poor kid must be so fucked up.”

“The ‘poor kid’ had a great time, I’ll have you know.”

“And you fucked him when you first got that body you're in, didn’t you, when you were meant to kill him,” she demands. She’d obviously been saving this for a rainy day. “And then you just _left_ him there. You’re such an asshole.”

“Believe me, he needed time to process it. So did I, as a matter of fact.”

She leans against the balcony a little distance away from him. She seems disappointed that he hasn’t lost his rag with her, or denied it. But he has fucking bigger problems than her opinion.

“You know,” she reflects after a moment. “I am fucking sick of it here. Hollywood’s not what I expected it to be.”

“You _didn’t_ expect it to be full of dirtbags and bullshit?”

“It’s no place for Glen and Glenda to grow up,” she goes on, ignoring him. “They need somewhere more low-key. Somewhere more friendly. Suburban. Saaay, in the mid-west.”

Chucky looks at her properly for the first time. She is holding her cigarette aloft, a smug with her own brilliance.

“Tiff, hold your fuckin’ horses. We don’t need to move to Chicago just because of Andy.” But even as he says this, he is thinking that would be fucking perfect, having Andy and his kids in the same city. Hell, even in the same state would be a vast improvement.

“Why not?” she says. “You said you liked it better than Jersey, and I know you hate it here. I can fly back when I have work, and like I said it’ll be great for the kids. And what’s your alternative? Split yourself between Andy and them? They need a _normal_ fucking Dad Chucky, not a doll half the time.”

“I know that,” he growls. “That’s why I’ve been _here_. But I need to tread very fucking carefully with Andy. And moving into the neighbourhood isn’t exactly treading carefully.”

“Well, _I_ won’t be moving into the neighbourhood,” Tiffany says. “I’ve found a really nice school for Glen and Glenda over an hour’s drive from Andy’s neighbourhood. So _you_ can live wherever you want. Chicago’s huge.”

Chucky says nothing.

“Glen hates the school here,” Tiffany continues. “And Glenda could do with a change of scene. It’ll do them both good.”

She had a point. Though he thought she had loved it here. He looks at her again.

“You killed many folks lately?”

She flushes, and he understands at once.

“So that’s why you wanna move, huh. Too many bodies piling up.”

“Shut up, asshole,” she says, furious. “So what if it is? The move will still be good for the kids. It’ll be good for you and it’ll be good for me. It’d be stupid not to.”

When he doesn't make fun of her, she looks him over and straightens. “Something’s really bothering you about Andy, isn’t it?”

He doesn't respond. He can’t tell her about retrieving the head’s memories. He doesn’t even know how to put it into words.

She turns away from him and addresses the Hollywood hills instead.

“Well, you can’t just fuck him and leave him again.”

“No shit,” Chucky says shortly. “I can’t.”

“I’m going to put the house on the market,” she says. “You need to put your place up too and find somewhere in Chicago. I’m not doing it for you.”

He feels a rusty little tug of affection for her then. He’s glad he has her, that they were able to stay close despite everything, without too much of the bitterness or the bullshit.

They’d had fucking terrible lives when they were young. Terrible enough to make them ruthless. This was their second shot at some sort of a life, and it was more important than killing, than each other, than anything, even if they never said it out loud.

He’d also never say out loud, no matter how close they got, that the more time he spent with the kids, the less he wanted to live forever as a killer doll. He thinks he’d be quite happy just living this life out, being a dad and then being done with it.

As if reading his mind, she says,

“If Andy asked you to give up killing, what would you say?”

He doesn’t respond. He didn’t want to rub her nose in it, but he hadn’t killed anyone since taking this new human body. And it hadn’t even been hard.

“Maybe he won’t,” Chucky muses. “Kid’s got a dark side.”

He’s only saying that to throw her. He knows Andy will ask for this at some point, surprised he hasn’t already. When Andy made the request about Nica, Chucky thought a blanket ultimatum on killing all people would follow, and it hadn't. But it would come at some point, and Andy won't go near him again if he suspects he's not following through.

Which was fair, if annoying. But Andy had the right to ask of Chucky anything he wanted.

And anyway, he had an idea for Nica already.

Tiff glances at him, annoyed at his unusual quiet.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how my shoot went?”

He lets her talk, and lets his idea take shape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah boi, Nica is coming.


End file.
